


Sakura Mochi

by Isa1187



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cherry Blossoms, Fluff, M/M, McGenji - Freeform, McGenjiSecretSanta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:58:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9045368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isa1187/pseuds/Isa1187
Summary: Everything good happens during cherry blossom season.





	

The first time Jesse sees Japan, the cherry blossoms are falling. 

“So these are all over the place?” Jesse holds up a cherry blossom curiously, squinting at it. “I mean, you see a few in parks back home, but nothing like this.” He gestures helplessly, waving his hand in a gesture that encompasses the surrounding trees and the sky and the fallen blossoms and them, the two men standing in drifts of delicate flowers in the height of cherry blossom season. 

“You have cherry blossoms in New Mexico?”, Genji asks, curious in spite of himself. “You never mentioned that.”

“Sure do,” Jesse responds. “Not like this, of course. But Albuquerque’s got some on the street corners, you know? They like to show off how fancy they are.”

Genji hums thoughtfully, tilting his head upwards the falling blossoms, squinting through his visor to spot the delicate shades of white and pink. 

There’s a soft thump from Jesse direction. Genji looks over, half-tensed against any possible threat, although it’s hard to imagine what threat could possibly be here today, while the cherry blossoms fall, while everyone in the city celebrates. 

He needn’t have worried. Jesse has just flopped down under a tree, settling long limbs against the petal-carpeted grass in complete relaxation. Genji gives a rare chuckle, head tilting, lips curving in a tiny smile under his mask. 

McCree scoops up a handful of blossoms and holds them up, again, to examine them more closely. “The ones we have are… fluffier, I think. Kinda darker pink and less streamlined. And they’re not all around like these things are,” he says, waving vaguely in a gesture that utterly fails to encompass anything from his position sprawled on the dirt. 

“I always enjoyed the cherry blossoms,” Genji finds himself saying, although he never talks about his past. “I would celebrate on every day they bloomed. Most people stuck to one day of Hanami, but I always took any excuse for a party.” Genji trails off. He does not talk about his past, has not talked about his childhood since his untimely death and resurrection, and he lapses back into the silence he has kept for the last six months. 

McCree does not seem to notice the awkward silence, or perhaps he’s ignoring it intentionally. Whichever the case, the other agent strokes the cherry blossom’s petals with a small smile on his face, a sly expression that reminds Genji of paintings he’s seen of old trickster gods. 

“They’re so soft and delicate,” he says. “They remind me of you, darling.” 

Genji stares, taking in the cowboy’s smile, soft and sly and sweet. He scowls under his mask and turns away, a sneer tightening the scars that cross his mouth. Preposterous. The cowboy flirts automatically, mechanically, as Genji once did, tossing out compliments whether or not they’re deserved. The sweet words fall on his ears like insults, and the instinct to strike out conflicts with his reasoning that McCree meant nothing, knows nothing about Genji, could not know the pain of being reminded of the beauty he would never again possess. He says nothing. He turns away. 

Behind him, Jesse is uncharacteristically quiet, ceasing the constant casual chatter he has so far kept up. 

Minutes pass, until Genji hears careful movement behind him and feels a hesitant tap in his shoulder. He turns around to face Jesse, still quiet, biting back every possible reply to keep from breaking one of the few careful friendships he’s managed not to destroy. 

“Hey there, partner,” Jesse says, and Genji cannot bring himself to fault the wording even as he tries to find mockery – they are technically partners are the moment, are they not? – and holds out a hesitant hand. The smile has lost its sly edge, and is soft and sad and warm. “You want to go down to the festival? Take a look around?”

Genji reaches toward the outstretched hand, hesitant and uncomfortable as a cat with tape on its paws, expecting Jesse to pull away. People do not touch him, certainly not for such little reason. But the hand remains, and he slips harsh, metal-jointed fingers into Jesse’s warm hand. His reconstructed nerves register the feeling distantly, the warm and immediate and satisfying warmth of another human muted into something dull. Still, this barely-there touch is better than the nothingness he tells himself he’s grown accustomed to. He can’t resist savoring the sensation, rubbing his thumb slowly across Jesse’s palm. 

It occurs to Genji that he’s been holding onto Jesse’s hand for far too long, considering the circumstances, considering the way he shut out Jesse’s casual flirting, considering the lack of any sort of relationship beyond the most tentative of friendships. 

Still, Jesse has not pulled away, and is regarding him with neither the disgust nor the fasciation he has come to expect. Genji takes it as unspoken permission to grasp McCree’s hand more tightly, picking it up between both of his own and stroking the knuckles and the creases in the skin, chasing the sensations of touch he remembers with such longing. The nerves built into this body are perfectly adequate, technically speaking, but touch is different when the contact is between metal and flesh. There is no soft yielding, no reciprocated warmth. Still, the soft warmth is impossibly good, even as it can’t be enough.

He's not watching Jesse’s face, or he would have seen the sadness that flickers behind the smile. The sensations of slipping Jesse’s hand between his own are too fascinating, too removed from what it should be and too immediate compared to the distance he’s kept over the last months. 

Jesse was asking something, wasn’t he? Right, the festival. The reminder brings back far too many memories of nights spent laughing and flirting under the lanterns, before. The inevitable bitterness is not directed at Jesse, this time, just a free-floating feeling with no outlet. Still, it creeps into his voice. 

“I would rather not,” Genji says, as flatly as possible. A pause. “…Thank you.” People do not often offer to do things for him, or with him, or near him. 

Jesse grins, apparently reassured that he hasn’t offended the cyborg. “Aw, that’s fine, sugar. There’ll be other chances.” 

“There is no need for you to stay,” Genji says. “Nothing will happen here tonight, and you would enjoy the celebrations.” Again, the bitterness seeps into his voice. He does not intend to drive away the cowboy, but it seems he has forgotten how not to alienate people. 

It blindsides him, then, when Jesse doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even step away, but tugs Genji closer and slips warm arms around his shoulders, comfortably, casually, as though hugging a cyborg alone among the cherry blossoms is the most natural thing in the world, and Genji isn’t sure whether to stiffen away or to melt into the unexpected embrace. 

“Nah. I reckon I’ve got the best view from up here, anyway,” the gunslinger says, “and the finest company.” 

There it is again – the flirting, automatic as breathing, directed at anyone who comes within earshot of Jesse. It should bother him, he’s sure, such words with no intent of action and no meaning behind them. But it’s comforting, somehow, that this one person doesn’t seem to care about Genji’s unique condition. 

Jesse sighs in – disappointment? Comfort? Contentment? – and starts to lean back from the hug slowly, as though he genuinely enjoys holding the cyborg. All at once Genji notices how warm McCree is, and how soft and firm and comforting, and suddenly it’s a loss he can’t stand to contemplate. He darts forwards and wraps himself around Jesse, too fast to see, pressing his faceplate against a warm neck and tangling a hand into messy hair, vaguely aware that he’s trembling at the sensation of touching another human. There’s a quick intake of breath from the man – from his partner, technically, at the moment – and Jesse cautiously strokes the back of Genji’s head, toying with one of the fins. 

“Aw, hell,” Jesse whispers, more to himself than anything. “Whatever you want, partner.” Genji presses closer in response, cooling systems humming to compensate for the warmth emanating from Jesse. They settle into the carpet of cherry blossoms, Jesse still holding Genji gently, as though he’s something precious and human and whole.

 

It’s a thing, after that, although neither of them talk about it. Genji goes to McCree when he needs comfort or company or just to be reminded that he has a heart and a soul. McCree ropes Genji into movie nights and parties and, occasionally, shows up at Genji’s door with too many memories and a bottle of whisky to take them away. They tell each other stories, late into the night, of people they’ve killed and places they’ve seen and of all the times they should have died. Whether or not they begin the evening around other people, they always seem to end up nestled against each other in a quiet corner, Genji pressed as close as he can to McCree, running fingers through dark hair, his cooling systems running at a gentle purr. 

“Ya sure you weren’t meant to get a cat spirit?” McCree asks more often than not, chuckling as Genji slips closer so he can finger the delicate, cat-ear-like fins. It’s an old joke, repeated so often that it’s as worn and comforting as the sound of McCree’s voice or the feel of the calloused pads of his fingers. Genji just hums in contentment, or bats at McCree’s hand lazily, or mumbles a half-hearted insult. 

They don’t talk about what they are, or what they have, or what they want. It’s easier that way, in their line of work, while they both know that someday either of them might not come back from a mission. 

 

Two years later, they’re sent to Japan on business again. 

It’s cherry blossom season, again, and the streets are covered with drifts of petals illuminated by hundreds of lanterns. Every park is crowded with people picnicking under the branches. Couples stroll through the petals, lost in the beauty of the cherry blossoms and each other’s eyes. 

As luck would have it, they end up in the same town as last time. As luck would have it, the contact Jesse and Genji are meant to meet – a former member of a large drug smuggling operation – does not come to their arranged meeting. Headquarters instructs them to stay in the same general area until they receive further instructions.

This time it’s Genji who turns to Jesse. “Would you like to go down to the celebrations? Perhaps we can find a mochi seller.”

Jesse grins just as warm and broad as he did two years ago, on a secluded hill covered in cherry blossoms, and he reaches for Genji’s hand. “That’s fine by me if you want to, partner,” he says, “but I think I’d rather find us a spot away from everyone, and watch the cherry blossoms, like last time.” 

Genji flushes under his mask, warmth tugging at his heart and seeping into his voice. “I would enjoy that,” he replies. And, playfully: “I would enjoy it more if we shared some mochi.” He turns toward the crowds, tugging Jesse behind him, smirking at his partner’s laugh. 

He does love Jesse’s laugh. 

It’s easy enough to find a mochi seller. Genji leads Jesse to a shop he remembers seeing last time they were in the town, its display packed with picnic blankets and festive bento boxes. There’s a table full of mochi just inside the door, and Jesse watches in bemusement as Genji selects a large box of sakura mochi, pays, and leads them back outside. 

“Those don’t look like food,” Jesse says doubtfully as they head toward the park and start the climb towards the secluded outcropping they remember from two years ago. “Don’t look anything like the other mochi we’ve had.” 

“They are wrapped in pickled cherry leaves,” Genji says. “It is a variety only made during the spring.”

“Since when are cherry leaves food?” 

Genji clucks his tongue, chiding and amused. “Pickled cherry leaves, and this sort of mochi is the best food. Twice, when I was a child, I ate so much that I made myself sick.”

Jesse eyes the mochi again, less doubtfully this time. “They must be pretty something,” he says as he reaches out, trying to swipe a piece from the box. 

“No,” Genji says, slapping his hand away. “We do not eat sakura mochi until we have settled down among the cherry blossoms.” 

Jesse pouts and mock-glares, but draws back from the box. “You’re killing me, darling. How’m I supposed to make it all the way up there without a snack?”

“I suppose I will have to remove the temptation, if it’s so difficult,” Genji replies, sly and cheerful. “I will see you at the top of the hill.” He darts forward, moving from a slow walk to a full-out sprint in half a second, practically cackling as he hears Jesse cursing behind him. 

Even moving at a sprint, it takes Genji several minutes to reach the top of the hill. As he’d hoped, no one else is there – the climb is too difficult for the average picnic-goer to want to attempt, and although the cherry trees are beautiful, they are less plentiful than they are in the carefully-cultivated park below. By the time Jesse makes it to the top of the hill several minutes later Genji is reclining beneath one of the trees, holding one of the pink, leaf-wrapped pieces of mochi. 

He gestures the out-of-breath cowboy over, holding out the mochi. Jesse sits down and goes to pick it up, but Genji smirks under his mask and bats the hand away. “Open your mouth,” he says softly, and savors Jesse’s blush as his lips part and Genji delicately places the mochi on his tongue. Genji traces the lines of Jesse’s face gently while the cowboy chews the mochi, his expression changing hilariously as he experiences the different flavors. 

“Do you like it?”, Genji asks innocently.

“It’s bitter,” Jesse says. “Not bad, but I wasn’t expecting the bitterness.” He frowns consideringly. “I think I need another.” 

Genji gestures lazily towards the box of mochi, expecting Jesse to grab his own handful of the little cakes. Jesse makes no move towards the box, though, instead grinning lazily and leaning closer to Genji. “Aren’t you going to help me out?”, he says.

It’s Genji’s turn to blush, but he wastes no time in picking up another piece of mochi. McCree smiles approvingly and leans forward, opening his mouth theatrically. He lingers, this time, as Genji slips the mochi into his mouth, taking Genji’s hand in both of his own and lazily licking the remnants of sugar and rice paste off the fingers. 

He’s interrupted when Genji tugs his hand away and sits back, head tilted in thought, surveying Jesse through his mask. “You know,” Genji says hesitantly, “I would also like some mochi.” 

“You need some privacy, partner?”, Jesse says, already turning away. 

Genji is silent for a long moment before answering. Jesse has seen him without the faceplate, of course, but only in brief glimpses. Never on purpose. “I think I would like you to look this time,” he says, tasting the words carefully on his tongue. And, more certainly, “Yes. I would like you to look at me.” 

“You don’t have to – “ Jesse starts, but Genji is already reaching up to the detach the faceplate from the rest of his armor. Genji takes a deep, stabilizing breath, closes his eyes, and presses the joinings behind his ear. The faceplate slides off. He places it down carefully, tilts his face towards Jesse, and opens his eyes. 

Although Jesse has seen him without the faceplate, they’ve never looked at each other, not really. Genji finds himself staring right into Jesse’s eyes. They’re beautiful. They’re always beautiful, but now he is looking at them with no layer of glass between them, and their depth and immediacy make the breath catch in his chest. The second thing Genji sees is Jesse’s smile, and it’s warm and wide and delighted as though he’s been given every Christmas present in the world at once.

Genji lets out a relieved breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding, and then Jesse is reaching up to cup his face and stroke calloused hands against his scarred cheeks, and it’s like feeling the sun for the first time. He lays back against the blossom-covered ground, eyes half-closing in contentment as Jesse follows, now tracing the curve of his mouth with soft fingers. 

“You do know,” Genji says after what feels like an eternity of soft words and kind touches, “you are supposed to be looking at the cherry blossoms.” 

Jesse gives an incredulous laugh and traces the bridge of Genji’s nose one more time. “I’ll take you over any cherry blossoms, darling,” he says. Genji gives a delighted hum and reaches up to catch the hand, finally daring to cup it against his own cheek. 

“You are silly,” he says. “Nothing compares to the cherry blossoms.” He half sits up, still pressing Jesse’s hand against his cheek. “I would still like some mochi, however,” Genji says, smiling broad and wicked. “Would you like to help me with that?” 

“Thought that was my line,” Jesse chuckles. He picks up a piece of mochi, and Genji tilts his head back obligingly. 

The taste is sweet and bitter all at once, and Genji likes it almost as much as he enjoys the feeling of Jesse’s fingers brushing against his mouth. 

It occurs to Genji that maybe, perhaps, they should talk about this. So far the worst has failed to happen today. So far Jesse has been perfect in every way, warm and kind and considerate and – he barely allows himself to think the word – and loving. 

“I would like to do this again,” he says, once the mochi has all been eaten in slow, delicious bites. “Perhaps when we retire we should buy a house with cherry blossoms in the yard.” 

“Darling, aw, darling,” and Jesse is kissing gently at the corners of his mouth, “that’s the best idea you’ve ever had.” 

“We will also need a cat,” Genji informs him. “And it should be not too far from a mochi seller.” 

Jesse chuckles against his mouth. “Let’s build it here,” he says, gesturing to the cherry tree-covered hilltop. 

“This is a public park,” Genji says. “I do not think they’ll let us.” 

“I bet we can figure something out,” Jesse says.

 

 

Years later, a cowboy and a ninja stand in front of a house on a cherry tree-covered hill. 

“I told you we’d figure something out,” the cowboy crows. “Didn’t I tell you?” 

“Your plan was awful,” the ninja says, light amusement in his voice. “We nearly died, Jesse. We nearly died three times.” 

“You’re exaggerating, darling. And we’re here now, aren’t we?”, the cowboy says, scooping the ninja into his arms. 

“Hardly. You fell off a cliff. I fell off a cliff. And we nearly crashed on the way here. The cat could have died, Jesse. What would I have done if the cat had died?” 

They settle beneath the trees, their quiet bickering filled with soft endearments, looking lovingly at each other and proudly at their home. 

The cherry blossoms do not fall, not today. Today they are just beginning to bloom, shining against a sky of the bluest blue, hiding the cowboy and the ninja from the rest of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2016 McGenji secret santa, for smol-sarcastic-snek! Prompts were "cherry blossoms" and "no faceplate". This is easily the fluffiest, happiest thing I've ever written.


End file.
